Back To Reality
by smalld1171
Summary: Spoilers for 10x3. A missing scene set right after Dean's 'treatment', because I needed more.
1. Chapter 1

**Back To Reality**

**10x3 missing scene after Dean is cured. I wanted some angst, so I wrote some.**

A/N: I myself have been 'MIA for quite some time now.' This story will have another chapter, will be working on it this week. Thanks to any and all who have a look.

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!

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><p>"Welcome back, Dean."<p>

Wide green eyes roam their surroundings, not stopping long enough to over analyze things but certainly aware enough to home in on Sam, his brother sporting a not so fashionable sling around his shoulder and a haggard appearance that screams out lack of food and sleep. Then there's Cas; it's hard _not_ to notice the angel blade he still wields in his grip. A glance down at his immediate location and he blows out a gust of air; he is expertly bound to the same chair none other than the King of Hell once occupied, one which has him securely shackled and situated in the middle of a damn devil's trap.

Shaking his head to try and dislodge his confusion, he knows even as foggy as things may be at the moment the scene has all the makings of a major crap fest, with him as the main attraction.

"Dean? You with us, man?"

The words drift around in his head; he's pretty sure the voice, _Sam's_ voice, is waiting patiently for him to say _something_, and he wants to erase the unease that seems to have infiltrated his brother's words but he's still trying to figure out exactly what happened and how he got here. He opens then closes his mouth, his usual bravado and instinct to satiate his brother's worry dying on his lips as he becomes more than acutely aware of the crippling fatigue rolling through his frame, feeling like his body is rapidly approaching the point of giving it up and slipping off to oblivion.

"Come on, dude. Please, I just need to know you're okay. Can you hear me? Dean?"

The pleading tone in his brother's voice slams him right in the gut; the sudden vision of holding a hammer and nonchalantly roaming the darkened halls while goading and stalking his own brother has him pulling at the binds with a strength only adrenaline can provide. His arm throbs in a delayed reaction, his mind replaying the moment he splintered the two inch thick door like it was constructed of toothpicks so he could get to Sam; to _kill_ him.

It all clicks into place in agonizing, crystal clear clarity.

Demon.

"It's alright, Dean, it's over. Whatever is going through your head right now just remember that, it's _over_."

Lifting his gaze to take a glance towards his brother there is a flash of genuine worry and concern in the landscape of Sam's face. His brother smirks lightly and it almost undoes him right then and there; some things you cannot be forgiven for, and his little trip down demon alley is the mother of them all. He almost killed his brother without batting a damn eyelash; knowing instinctively his black eyes shone darkly at the then tantalizing thought of ending Sam for good.

"Well, uh, let's get you out of those to start. Cas, give me a hand?"

"Of course, Sam."

His gaze drops and he starts to yank harder, desperate to get away; run as far and fast as he can from the sickly sweet voice of Sam; not deserved when his brother's skull was mere inches away from being skewered by the damn hammer held by his own hand.

Eyes flick to his right arm, a groan escaping unfettered as they land on raised flesh, the brand mocking him, still standing to attention across his skin. His breathing ramps up and his vision starts to blur, the onset of a panic attack eating away his tenuous hold on keeping some facade of composure as the unmistakable presence of tears flood his eyes. His head takes it as a cue and joins in the party; starts to pound an unrelenting rhythm against his skull while his stomach jumps into the fray to gurgle in his throat.

He closes his eyes tightly against the barrage; the guilt and sickening feeling that attaches to it creeping along his veins and heading straight for his heart, amplifying his physical weakness tenfold.

A gentle touch on his wrist has him trying to shrink back in the chair, trying to escape the comfort that is unspoken but felt through the digits of his brother's hand; the knowledge that he doesn't deserve an iota of kindness effectively ceases any lingering need to connect, to feel the warmth that only an embrace from Sam can provide. A sigh is heard before the soft, calming voice of his brother coaxes gently in his ear.

"Try to relax, Dean. You're okay and I'm okay, I _promise_. Cas and I are going to get you out of these now, alright?"

His throat feels like sandpaper as he swallows in response; knows since his nerves are pretty much shot he can't trust that he won't spew all over the place if he opens his mouth so nods in affirmation of the question and to let Sam know his words registered.

"Good, that's good. Just take some deep breaths and let us do the rest."

As the binds on his left wrist are released he unconsciously stretches the digits of his hand before wiping it across his face with a sigh.

"Almost got it."

Sam's arm is shaking, he can feel it as it grazes his shoulder and he knows he is struggling, wishing the tremors were due only to having one arm less than 100%, but knowing it stems so much deeper than that. He chances a look at his brother's efforts, taking in the way his clothes seem to fit too loosely and noticing a light sheen of perspiration coating his skin. Sam has been through the wringer and he swears then and there it's for the very last time.

With that final reflection still echoing in his mind his right arm is suddenly freed and he launches himself from the suffocating shroud of guilt and remorse only to stagger a few feet until his seemingly useless legs give out under his weight and he plunges unceremoniously to his knees, his brain threatening to explode as it pulsates through his skull. He can feel Sam's movement behind him before he hears it and quickly shifts a hand behind him in a stopping motion to halt his brother's progress.

"Dean?"

"Don't, Sam... just... stop... please..."

He clears his throat, the razor blades that cut a swath of pain across it in earnest making him groan softly at the unexpected discomfort. He fights to keep it together, his body revolting against him from head to toe making his grand escape plan slowly dissolve into dust. He stays where he is until there is a soft touch on his shoulder and he turns sharply, the movement making him lose his already wavering balance and landing him squarely on his ass.

Sam backs up a couple of steps with his arms held out in a placating posture and he almost loses it; sees what he equates as fear lance across his brother's features. Sam shares a look with Cas who is standing to his left and slightly shakes his head at the angel before turning his full attention back to him.

"Hey, Dean. I need you to listen to me okay? I know you're not feeling too hot and are probably confused as hell, so why don't we get you out of here so you can get some rest? I mean, no offense dude, but you look like warmed over crap."

And then Sam lets out an honest chuckle as a genuine smile emerges from his face, and is looking at him with such relief in his eyes that his resolve to get the hell out of dodge starts to waver.

"Sammy?"

The second the nickname is uttered through his lips he is plunged into another memory; hears a distorted version of his own voice calling out to his brother with that name; sarcasm, hate and loathing dripping from each syllable.

"Yeah. Yeah, man, it's me. It's Sammy."

His brother inches closer and he's on autopilot now; he scrambles back on his rear, barely registering the matching looks of shock on the other men's faces. He doesn't stop his backward migration until he hits the table behind with such force that the tray it holds loses its purchase to clatter noisily to the floor, dispelling its contents in close proximity. He stares hard at the syringe that seems to clack against the ground in slow motion, the dried blood still coating the glass inside serving to ignite a swell of nausea that claws its way to the surface and has him struggling to breathe.

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><p><strong>TBC. Thanks for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for the reviews, favourites and alerts, I am beyond surprised at the response. I had intended to post this chapter much sooner but I had sooooo many ideas running in my head that I started and stopped this chapter numerous times. I still think it could be better but hope you will still enjoy. _

_Not sure if there will be more, let me know if you have an opinion about a continuation. Thanks again! :)_

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><p>The first thing he notices is Sam standing at the ready; poised to come to his aid as Cas looks on.<p>

They need to stay away from him and the poison he knows is still flowing through his veins; courtesy once again of the choices he alone has made.

Desperate to keep them back, to hold them off from helping him because the thought of that churns his gut into a pretzel, he slowly deepens the amount of air he pulls into his lungs to show some semblance of control.

"Just...just gimme a sec, I got this."

He manages a pointed stare across the room and feels more than a modicum of relief as he catches Sam's slightly impatient, almost imperceptible nod. Satisfied he's bought himself maybe a few minutes he tries to gain his bearings and pull his emotions back in.

But of course it's a losing battle, every thought spinning him towards the one glaring truth; that he has screwed up again, royally. The words he spat at his brother fill the surface of his brain; words filled with hate and contempt, chosen with such cold, calculated purpose and malice that he shivers unconsciously.

The blame that spewed outwards from him had just one goal; cause Sam maximum emotional damage while he sat back and gleefully watched, the clench of Sam's jaw and sadness oozing out of every pore evidence that his vile statements hit home; the fact their mother was dead because of him was followed up by the most brutal revelation of all; they were _never_ brothers.

Bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them he narrows his eyes back on the bloodied implement, everything around it shifting out of focus until without warning or conscious thought he is propelled to yet another sickening scene; the church.

His eyes open wide at the phantom vision on display; Sam stands weakened and frail, one injection away from curing Crowley at the cost of his own life.

There is a rumble in his chest as the full impact of the trials become more and more clear. His brother; gentle, glass is always half full Sam, is no longer able to see that damn light at the end of the tunnel he was always going on about. Instead, he tosses him an incredulous look and his utterance of a single word reeks of annoyance and despair, the gravity of it shaking him to the core. 'So?'

The vibration in his throat breaks free from the emotional impact of that word to enter the present tense as a shuddering sob, as the realization that his entire life's work, his unwavering pledge to protect his brother at all costs was one plunge of a needle away from crumbling into dust and floating away in the breeze as if it never existed.

"No. S'mmy? M'sorry."

"Come back to us, Dean. Nothing to be sorry for, man."

His breath hitches and he wavers where his sits, all his brother has gone through slamming into him with the force of a hurricane as he reaches out to grab the syringe.

He swallows repeatedly in a last ditch effort to stave off the acidic burn that winds its way up his throat and threatens to expel its taint into the world. Objects blur around him as rapid breaths that border the brink of hyperventilation fill the otherwise eerily quiet space.

The room has taken on the aura of a tilt-a-whirl and he shuts his eyes against the motion, tries to ride out the waves of unsteadiness that ebb, flow and reverberate through his frame. Sweat forms quick and steady to pool in his pores and the crevasses of his skin, his shirt engulfing him in a wash of fire before adhering snugly to his burning flesh.

"Dean, come on, man. Cas?" The voice is soft but the edge woven through the words is palpable. He should scream out, should yell with all he has that they need to get away and stay away from him, leave his no good for nothing ass where it is to wither away, but he also knows that voice, and knows it is not ready to let him go.

There are footsteps around him but they sound strange, floating somewhere far off in the distance. His head is starting to ache so he doesn't bother to figure it out, his laser focus remaining on the object in his hand; the one his brother used to cure the latest demon threat in their midst; _him_.

He was a damn demon; evil and cold and heartless.

He can't stand it, what he has done to Sam.

He hates himself more than he ever has.

He hates what he put his brother through.

He hates the syringe in his palm and the mark burned into his flesh; the one he _asked_ for.

Wiping a hand across his face he feels the moisture, remnants of tears slick against his skin and wonders if the thread he's been holding on to for what seems like years has finally unravelled to gather around his feet.

There is a hand on his shoulder now, it starts to squeeze tighter as he does the same, the crunch of glass reaching his ears just as a sigh exits his brother. It's a surprise to him, that he can feel each sliver of the broken vial easily embed themselves into his palm; surprised that the blood starts to flow and is not instantly healed cuz that's the way evil sons of bitches roll, why they always keep on coming.

"Jesus, Dean. Cas, grab me something to wrap this up."

He snaps back instantly, his inner monologue evaporating like mist that gets caught and is enveloped in the downpour as Sam's voice filters in. He is taken back by just how young his brother sounds; like he did when he was a shaggy haired kid who would seek comfort in his big brother's illusion of strength.

Lifting his head slowly he makes direct, penetrating eye contact with his sibling who he now realizes is crouched in front of him, slowly working to pry his fingers from their vice grip and wrapping a hand gently around his bloodied wrist when he succeeds.

He watches with a look of detachment as Sam carefully relieves his hand of the remnants of the syringe before wrapping it loosely in a cloth.

"Hey man. What was that all about? You need to talk to me." Sam looks up to the other man in the room before directing his attention back to him.

"Cas and I are worried about you. We just want to help with whatever is going on, but we need you to tell us what's happening."

He doesn't know where to start. It hurts, the memories that keep flooding in. Lowering his head in shame he can practically feel two sets off eyes bore into the top of his head.

"I.. I can't...too much...so much..."

Sam clears his throat and is working to keep his own emotions in check, but his words are calm and steady.

"I know, Dean, and I get it, I do. You've been through a lot so talking isn't really on top of the list, right? Fair enough. All things considered, can you just tell us if you're doing okay?"

He can't stop the snort that vibrates along the back of his throat. His usual comeback line stands at the ready on his lips but he just can't play the stubborn, smartass brother card he has always used to deflect the inner turmoil that is always busy ripping his insides to threads.

Not this time. He can't sugarcoat it; can't make a joke about it; can't hide the guilt and disgust, the pain and sheer magnitude of all he has done; it constantly drips, a leaky faucet in his head that never shuts off.

Looking upward he sees the tilt of the angels head, powerful deep blue eyes seeming to pierce directly into what is left of his tattered soul before the features turn soft and emit emotions he does not deserve. He takes in the deepening lines that crinkle above his brother's brow before meeting Sam's gaze straight on and trying to say everything running in his head and bruising his heart through his eyes alone.

This time he owes Sam more than just another lie.

"No."

It comes out shaky, hoarse and strained, that one syllable, but the underlying meaning interwoven within it speaks volumes and carries the subtly of a fast approaching freight train.

In just one small word he has told Sam more than an entire novel ever could.

Dean Winchester is _not_ fine.

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><p><em>Thanks for stopping by!<em>


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